In The Spaniard's Bed. HELEN BIANCHIN
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She saw him out the door, locked up, then she removed her make-up, undressed, then slid into bed to stare at the darkened ceiling for what seemed an age, sure hours later when she woke that she hadn’t slept at all.
A session in the gym, followed by several laps of the pool eased some of her tension, and she re-entered her apartment, showered and dressed in jeans and a loose top, then crossed into the kitchen to prepare lunch.
Cameron arrived at twelve, and presented her with a chilled bottle of champagne.
‘A little premature, don’t you think?’ she offered wryly as she prepared garlic bread and popped it into the oven to heat.
‘Something smells good,’ he complimented, and she wrinkled her nose at him.
‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere.’ Lunch was a seafood pasta dish she whipped up without any fuss, and accompanied by a fresh garden salad it was an adequate meal.
‘Let’s eat first, then we’ll deal with business. OK?’
He didn’t look much better than she felt, and she wondered if he’d slept any more than she had.
‘Dad is expecting us for dinner.’
It was a weekly family tradition, and one they observed almost without fail. Although the thought of presenting a false façade didn’t sit well. Her father might suffer ill-health, but he wasn’t an easy man to fool.
‘This pasta is superb,’ Cameron declared minutes later, and she inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.
By tacit agreement they discussed everything except Preston-Villers, and it was only when the dishes were dealt with that Cassandra indicated Cameron’s briefcase.
‘Let’s begin, shall we?’
It was worse, much worse than she had envisaged as she perused the paperwork tabling Preston-Villers slide into irretrievable insolvency. The accountant’s overview of the current situation was damning, and equally indisputable.
She’d wanted proof. Now she had it.
‘I can think of several questions,’ she began, but only one stood out. ‘Why did you let things get this bad?’
Cameron raked fingers through his hair. ‘I kept hoping the contracts would come in and everything would improve.’
Instead, they’d gone from bad to worse.
Cassandra damned Diego del Santo to hell and back, and barely drew short of including Cameron with him.
‘Business doesn’t succeed on hope.’ It needed a hard, competent hand holding the reins, taking control, making the right decisions.
A man like Diego del Santo, a quiet voice insisted. Someone who could inject essential funds, and ensure everything ran like well-oiled clockwork.
There was sense in the amalgamation, and as Cameron rightly described, it was the only deal in town if Preston-Villers was to survive.
‘Shall I contact Diego and confirm you’ve reconsidered his dinner invitation?’
‘No.’
Disbelief and consternation were clearly evident.
‘No?’
‘My ball. My play.’ Something she intended to take care of tomorrow. She stood to her feet. ‘I need to put in an hour or two on the laptop before leaving to have dinner with Dad.’ She led the way to the door of her apartment. ‘I’ll see you there.’
‘OK.’ Cameron offered an awkward smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘For what?’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘Lunch?’
‘That, too.’
It was after five when Cassandra entered the electronic gates guarding Alexander Preston-Villers’ splendid home. Renovations accommodated wheelchair usage, and a lift had been installed for easy access between upper and lower floors. There was a resident housekeeper, as well as Sylvie, the live-in nurse.
Cassandra rang the bell, then used her key to enter the marble-tiled lobby.
It tore at Cassandra’s heart each time she visited, seeing the man who had once been strong reduced to frail health.
Tonight he appeared more frail than usual, his lack of motor-skills more pronounced than they had been a week ago, and his appetite seemed less.
She looked at him, and wanted to weep. Cameron seemed similarly affected, and attempting to maintain a normal façade took considerable effort.
There was no way she’d allow anyone to upset Alexander. Not Cameron, nor Diego del Santo.
She made the silent vow as she drove back to her apartment. The determined bid haunted her sleep, providing dreams that assumed nightmarish proportions, ensuring she woke late and had to scramble in order to get to work on time.
Confronting Diego del Santo was a priority, and given a choice she’d prefer to beard him in his office than meet socially over a shared meal.
Which meant she’d need to work through her lunch hour in order to leave an hour early.
Cassandra found it difficult to focus on the intricate attention to detail involved with the creative-design project for an influential client.
Diego del Santo’s image intruded, wreaking havoc with her concentration, and consequently it was something of a relief to pack up her work and consign it to the security safe before freshening her make-up prior to leaving for the day.
Del Santo Corporation was situated on a high floor of an inner-city office tower, and Cassandra felt a sense of angry determination as she vacated the lift and walked through automatic sliding glass doors to Reception.
‘Diego del Santo.’ Her voice was firm, clipped and, she hoped, authoritative.
‘Mr del Santo is in conference, and has no appointments available this afternoon.’
She made a point of checking her watch. ‘Put a call through and tell him Cassandra Preston-Villers is waiting to see him.’
‘I have instructions to hold all calls.’
Efficiency. She could only admire it. ‘Call his secretary.’
A minute…Cassandra counted off the seconds…a woman who could easily win secretary-of-the-year award appeared in Reception. ‘Is there a problem?’
You betcha, Cassandra accorded silently, and I’m it. ‘Please inform Diego del Santo I need to see him.’
A flicker of doubt. That’s all she needed. Yet none appeared. Was his secretary so familiar with Diego’s paramours, she knew categorically that Cassandra wasn’t one of them?
‘I have instructions to serve drinks and canapés at five,’ his secretary informed. ‘I’ll mention your presence to him then.’
It was a small victory, but a victory none the less. ‘Thank you.’
Half an hour spent leafing through a variety of glossy magazines did little to help her nervous tension.
Staff began their end-of-day exodus, and she felt her stomach execute a painful somersault as Diego’s secretary moved purposely into Reception.
‘Please come with me.’
Minutes later she was shown into a luxurious suite. ‘Take a seat. Mr del Santo will be with you soon.’
How soon was soon?
Five, ten, thirty minutes passed. Was he playing a diabolical game with her?
Nervous tension combined with anger, and she was almost on the point of walking out. The only thing that stopped her was the sure knowledge she’d only have to go through this again tomorrow.
Five more minutes, she vowed, then she’d go in